


For Her Flames

by Woofemus



Category: Xenoblade Chronicles 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 23:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14318973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woofemus/pseuds/Woofemus
Summary: “Mòrag Ladair.” Her guttural cry quakes through the tunnels of her cave. “The affairs of the outside world concern me little. What it is that I care for…”Her eyes open, gazing upon the tiny human standing foolishly in her cave.“I ask why you would awaken me.”





	1. for a light

**Author's Note:**

> this whole thing is a purely self-indulgent fire emblem au so there's no real updating schedule, nor do I actually expect to finish this tbh

She wakes to a single human woman standing before her.

The fog in her mind is thick, almost impenetrable through the grogginess. Her body is sluggish, heavy, and stiff. When was the last time she woke? She doesn’t know, nor does she think she will remember.

For what reason does she wake?

A slow throb pulses within her body, a resonance with…

Ah.

There can be only reason for her awakening.

The human hasn’t moved since sensing her stirring. When she lets out a growl, the human hurriedly kneels, placing a hand over their heart.

“Flamebringer, my lady, my name is Mòrag Ladair. I come before you as an envoy from the Empire of Mor Ardain,” spills from the human’s lips.

She does not recognize these names.

She recognizes instead the human before her.

“My cave is impassable to all but to those gifted with flight.” Her voice rumbles, trembling the rocks along her cave. “And yet, you are here.”

“My own bloodline descends from Iote himself,” the human answers in lieu of a proper explanation, as if it is mere blood itself that could explain the extraordinary feat the human has accomplished instead.

The name stirs a faint memory, clawing at the back of her mind. For all of her slumbering, she does not forget that name, does not forget the significance of it.

“Iote…” she breathes. “For my fangs and aid centuries ago, he promised to never disturb my slumber. Faithfully, he kept this oath. Yet, _you_ are here.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady—”

“ _You_ seek to break the oath that your ancestor had sworn to me?”

The human falls silent. She bows her head, seemingly in shame.

“Forgive me. Had I the choice, I would not seek for this path—”

A growl rings through the air. The human abruptly stops, and takes a shuddering breath. When the human speaks, her voice is a tremble.

“… yes. I offer no excuses. It is exactly as you speak.”

“ _You_ , who already wield my fangs, would ask for my awakening?”

“A terrible shadow looms over Alrest, my lady. Our Titan of Mor Ardain begins its march toward death, and the earth dragons are beginning to stir once more—”

“ _Mòrag Ladair_.” Her guttural cry quakes through the tunnels of her cave. “The affairs of the outside world concern me little. What it is that I care for…”

Her eyes open, gazing upon the tiny human standing foolishly in her cave.

“I ask why _you_ would awaken me.”

The human opens her mouth, and closes it. She bows her head once more, to stare upon the ground. Then, her entire being changes, and the human looks up.

Within the eyes of the human, she can see the blaze of defiance burning bright. Even in the face of difficulty, even in the face of danger, even in the face of death, her gaze is unfaltering. In the darkness of the cave, enveloped in the light of a dragon’s flames, the human shines still with a radiance brighter than divinity. Thus, when the human declares—

“My lady, I desire your flames.”

—Brighid answers her call.

She closes her eyes. “Descendant of Iote…” she begins. For all her power, for all the centuries of sleep, it is hard to move a limb. “Mòrag Ladair…”

Finally, she extends her claw and holds out her palm. “Find me my dragonstone.”

The human doesn’t move, stunned into inaction. When Brighid shifts her hand as a reminder and her scales scrape against the rocks, the human jolts. “My apologies. But…” a questioning look comes upon Mòrag’s face. “Your dragonstone, my lady?”

“Yes… I can sense that the Aegis is still broken in the world, still separated from its true form. It is her divine power that gives us dragons the power to remain sane… should I awaken fully now, I may go mad and devour you.”

“… if that be the consequence of breaking my ancestor’s oath and earning your ire, I will accept it,” the human replies gravely.

This human, Mòrag Ladair, is an interesting kind, Brighid decides.

“Perhaps it may come down to that, but please, first, if you could find my dragonstone…”

“A-ah, yes, right away!”

It is amusing, almost, to see the way Mòrag scuttles about her cave, trying to find a stone in near darkness. They are far from the entrance of her cave, its light so dim that she can only imagine what this must look like to weak human eyes.

Brighid does not know of how long she waits, only that the human continues to search tirelessly. Is it the tenacity of her stubborn blood? Is it the desperation for power that fuels her?

Mòrag Ladair…

Morag’s voice shakes the air as she shouts suddenly. “This, my lady?”

Mòrag holds up a stone in the center of her hands. Even in the darkness of the cave, it gleams a brilliant blue. Its shape, the mark of a flame.

“Yes. Bring it here, if you will.”

“Of course.” Mòrag obeys without question, carefully setting the dragonstone down in the palm of Brighid’s hand with reverence, acting as if she is setting down a prized idol upon a pedestal instead.

“Now, hold your weapons over it,” Brighid commands.

Mòrag does as she is told, drawing the twin swords at her side. She holds them over the dragonstone, holds her breath. A light flares from the dragonstone before flames begin to burst out.

But the flames that come forth are not the red she has seen her whole life but _blue_. Mòrag cannot help but let her mouth hang open in shock, and awe.

A spark flashes, something so bright that illuminates the whole cave for but a brief second.

But it is enough for Mòrag to emblazon within her mind the slender dragon of radiant blue scales.

The light shines so brilliantly and against her own desires, Mòrag has no choice but to look away. She brings an arm up to shield against the blaze of the light, still trying to catch a glimpse of the dragon once more, and sees the flames exploding along the walls of the cave instead.

Heat spirals through the cave, and surrounds Mòrag’s body on both sides that she can’t even begin to tell where it starts and where it ends. The heat is so intense, scorchingly so. The swords in her hands are pulsing, and she feels like it as if it is her own heartbeat throbbing through them, as if it is the beat of the flames she can feel.

But there is no burn. There is no pain. There is only…

The light disappears. Mòrag immediately lowers her arm. The flames have lit the scattered torches along the cave, and now Mòrag can finally see—

The dragon is gone, and in its place…

Brighid, unsteady on such soft feet, slowly rises. She holds her hand to just under her neck, clutching the stone within. Her hair fans out from behind her, its tip faintly glowing as if lit aflame by the blue blazes of earlier.

Mòrag’s throat is dry, and she can’t speak.

“I suppose this form is something you will be more accustomed to.” Brighid speaks, but her voice is much different than the tired growl of a dragon now. Softer and higher, still with the threat of power lurking behind her voice. Incredible, Mòrag cannot help but think.

“Does something bother you, Mòrag?” A corner of Brighid’s lips curls upward, and Mòrag feels heat creep into her cheeks for reasons unknown to her. “Is this not what you expected? Shall I revert back to being a dragon—”

“No!” Mòrag is mortified, embarrassed, and she doesn’t know why. “I…” She shakes her head quickly, trying to contain the rush of thoughts in her mind. “Just… your flames, they burned with a different power and… color than I am used to, I must confess.” She clears her throat. “They are beautiful, my lady.”

“… an interesting human you are, Mòrag, but thank you,” Brighid murmurs, thoughtful. She takes a step forward, but Brighid, still so unused to a softer and small body, feels her feet underneath her give way, and she falls forward.

Mòrag drops her swords to catch her. The clang of the weapons reverberate through the air, thick with the smell of smoke and fire. They both gasp, Mòrag from sheer surprise, and Brighid as if from being struck.

“F-forgive my impudence!” Mòrag cries out, mindful of where her hands are and staring hard at the rocks above her. “I-if you are fine now, I-I will—”

Brighid silences her with a shake of her head, and pulls away. She holds out the hand at her neck, and opens it. In that hand is the same stone Mòrag had found, a mysterious gem cut in the shape of a blue flame. Even from where she stands, Mòrag can feel its warmth. It feels as if it calls out to her.

Her twin swords, still on the floor, begin to glow faintly, a blue sheen upon them. Mòrag slowly picks them up, staring at them, entranced. “I’ve not seen them do that before…”

“Your swords were forged from my own fangs,” Brighid explains patiently. “They are the only reason I woke… if you did not have them, I wouldn’t have roused as much as I did.” She faces fully toward Mòrag. “Now, with me at your side, you will be able to unleash their true power. Mòrag Ladair, you will be capable of accomplishing even greater things…”

Brighid doesn’t miss the way Mòrag flinches.

“Do you desire power? Ambition? Glory?” Brighid raises her hands and cradles Mòrag’s face. Under her hands, she can feel the vigor of Mòrag’s youth, the flame of life burning bright even underneath the severe look upon her face. “What is so dire that you must possess the strength of a dragon, that you must break the oath your ancestor has sworn to me?”

The temptation to look elsewhere except at the divinely being in front of Mòrag is powerful, but Mòrag is unable to, not with the way Brighid, with gentle hands and a gaze more curious than penetrating, tightly coils Mòrag in her hold.

“My lady, if you will believe me, I seek none of those things. I only… I only desire your flames so that I may save my country,” Mòrag replies softly, imploringly almost. If there is any deceit upon her character, even for one so attuned to perception as Brighid, she can ken none of it.

But there is another feeling she can sense instead.

Humans are such fragile creatures, she thinks. For one such as Brighid, their lives are always far too short yet they hold ambitions that drive them far beyond their tiny lives. Is it perhaps the way they are so aware of their mortality that forces them to believe they can achieve greatness? They always rush ahead, heedless of everything else, and when Brighid can even blink, they are gone, lost forever to the cruelties of time.

Mòrag Ladair is no different, a human so desperate she sought the legends to grant her the strength she needed.

In time, too, just as all the humans before her, Mòrag will grow old and pass, and Brighid will return to her slumber. Will her legacy fade as it has done with all the others before her? What will Mòrag Ladair accomplish in her life? What will Mòrag Ladir _hope_ to accomplish at the end of her life?

Humans are such fragile creatures, but Mòrag Ladair…

Brighid brings her hands down, to the swords, to her fangs. She touches the blades, and lights them ablaze. The blue flames circle around them, burning hot, but not touching the bodies within. Mòrag’s eyes widen, staring at her with uncertainty, but unafraid. It is all Brighid needs to see.

The fires disappear and leave them in near darkness once more. With the embers flickering still in the cave, as the shadows flit across her face, Brighid smiles.

“Mòrag Ladair, let us go together.”


	2. for a name

Traveling alone is easy.

Traveling with a companion is hard, Mòrag is soon realizing.

“Mòrag? We’ve been at it for quite a while now. Don’t you feel the slightest bit tired?” Brighid calls out from where she’s trailing behind. Mòrag pauses in her steps, accessing the day.

Even through the thicket of leaves, Mòrag can tell that they are much past midday now, having traveled since waking up in the morning and not stopping even once. The trees here are tall, so tall that Mòrag can barely even glimpse the top of them. Their leaves offer protection and shade against the sun, but there is very little light that manages to break free through the foliage. The heat here is mild too, not like Mor Ardain where everything is sweltering and the heat bears down like an added layer of clothes.

Although given that her companion is a fire dragon, Mòrag isn’t sure Brighid can feel that.

Perhaps it is traveling with one such as Brighid that makes it hard.

Mòrag shakes her head. “No, I am fine.” She turns to look over her shoulder at Brighid, and a horrifying thought comes to her. “Oh! Forgive me, I only thought about my own exhaustion! Are you tired? Shall we rest? Allow me to find a place…”

Mòrag scans their surroundings, hoping to find a suitable resting place. Gormott always has an abundance of those whenever Mòrag needed to rest during her travels alone but now that she needs one, she can’t seem to find anything suitable enough. Ah, but what would even be a perfect resting spot for one such as Brighid? Perhaps she’d like to cool down next to a creek, or perhaps rest in the shade—

A touch on her arm makes her jolt. When she turns, Brighid is at her side and not ways behind like she originally was. How did she even come upon her so fast? How did Brighid even sneak up on her, sneak up without Mòrag’s honed senses alerting her to Brighid’s presence?

Why does this rattle her so much?

“Mòrag, you’re…” Brighid frowns at her, and Mòrag nearly swallows at that expression. Several long seconds pass before Brighid shakes her head. “Yes. You’re right, I would like to rest.”

Mòrag slowly nods. “Yes, of course.” She turns away, already walking off. “Please, wait here. I shall find us a proper space.”

She doesn’t catch the way Brighid grimaces after her.

A short exploration later, Mòrag manages to find a creek nearby. It’ll do for water, and perhaps Brighid might like to wash up a bit after traveling for such a long time without a break.

Mòrag comes back, and finds Brighid sitting on the root of a tree, on a rare spot where a spot of strong sunlight breaks through the foliage. Her face is turned upward toward the sky. Mòrag is unsure if she is basking in the sun’s warmth, or trying to find something up there. Either way, Mòrag cannot help but stare at her, at how the sunlight seems to catch upon Brighid.

There’s little doubt that Brighid isn’t human, as the tips of her pointed ears that peek out from beyond her hair. But there is a certain… ephemeralness to her that only someone Brighid can wield. Is it how manaketes normally are?

Or is this Brighid’s own presence that draws Mòrag’s attention so?

Brighid moves then, a small incline of her head toward Mòrag. “You’re back,” she calls out. Mòrag feels a flush creeping across her face, embarrassed at being caught staring.

“I’ve found a stream nearby for you to refresh, my lady,” Mòrag says, silently thankful she’s managed to keep the stumble out of her words.

“Ah.” Brighid regards her for a moment before rising. “Lead the way.”

Mòrag does, mindful of the path. When they come onto the clearing Mòrag had found, Brighid actually brightens, a small smile on her face as she strides past Mòrag. Finding some water had been a good call, then.

“Are you hungry?” Mòrag is already turning around before Brighid says anything. “I’ll find us some food—”

“Wait.” Brighid’s voice cuts through the air and stops Mòrag in her tracks. Mòrag slowly turns back around. “I’ll hunt for us this time.”

Mòrag blinks at her. “Ah, um…” Her surprise is more than evident, as she looks upon Brighid’s form, unarmed, and… well, not…

She wonders if there’s a polite way to speak what she’s thinking. “You… do not need to, my lady,” she says carefully instead. “Allow me, and you may stay here and rest instead—”

“Mòrag.” Strangely, Brighid seems to grow more resolute. “I’ve been in a slumber for such a long time, I’ve not been able to stretch my wings. So…”

“I…” Mòrag finds herself torn. On one hand, she understands what it is like to be restrained and suddenly learn of freedom. On the other, to have a high being such as Brighid going out and… hunting for food for her is…

Mòrag would rather perish the thought.

But Brighid is already stalking out toward the forests before Mòrag can wrestle with her inner objections. “I’ll be right back,” she says. Mòrag manages to raise a hand in protest but there’s a flash of light that blinds Mòrag and forces her to cover her eyes with a hand. When she recovers, the flash is gone, along with Brighid. The only sign she’d even been there is the rustling of the leaves falling from the trees where Brighid flew off.

Mòrag stares at the spot where Brighid had been. With stiff movements, she sits down next to the stream, carefully unhooks her swords to place down next to her, and puts her hands on her face.

Mòrag Ladair, bloodline descendant to the hero Iote who founded the beginnings of their Empire and wielded the fangs of the Flamebringer to victory and freedom against the dark Aegis and earth dragons, is sitting in the middle of a forest in potentially dangerous territory, and allowing the Flamebringer herself to… to… hunt food for the both of them.

Truly, Mòrag has fallen far below than even the Senate’s own opinions of her.

… and a shame that Mòrag could not catch another glimpse of her draconian form once more.

Off in the distance, Mòrag hears a roar.

… how do dragons eat, actually? Will Brighid devour the animal… whole? Does she rip and tear at it like a hungry feris? Or does she use her flames to snuff out the life of her prey before feasting?

The sickeningly squelch of wet flesh plopping on the ground startles Mòrag. She’s already on her feet, swords in her hands as she whips around, flicking out one of the swords with her thumb—

Brighid, in her manakete form once more, stands there, with the carcass of a small eks in front of her. Mòrag is blinking owlishly at her, unsure of what to even pay attention to: Brighid’s pristine form save for the bloodied tips of her claws peeking out from the cloak Mòrag gave her, or the open tear across the body of the eks and the faint smell of char in the air.

“I am back,” Brighid says with a murmur, walking toward Mòrag, who can’t help but stare at her with wide eyes. As she comes closer, she raises an eyebrow at Mòrag, questioning her, before brushing past. Mòrag’s eyes follow her, watching Brighid bend down to the water, scooping some of the water in her hands—ah, she’s… cleaning.

Mòrag isn’t even aware that she spent the whole time watching Brighid until she turns around and tilts her head at her.

“Is something the matter, Mòrag?” she asks. Mòrag jolts, quickly spinning on her heels.

“F-forgive me, I hadn’t meant to, ah, stare—I’ll get a fire starting now.” Mòrag starts to scan the forest floor, cursing herself. To keep Brighid waiting, what sort of charge is she supposed to be?

“No need for that.” And Mòrag nearly startles once more when she realizes Brighid is suddenly at her side. Mòrag means to protest but Brighid places a hand on her arm, as if to stop her and turns her head toward her. Mòrag freezes in place, feeling Brighid’s gaze upon her.

The corners of Brighid’s lips twitch, like she’s amused, but once she sees Mòrag makes no further movements, she moves away. She crouches down and holds out her hand. A blue flame engulfs her hand. Rather than lowering her hand to the ground like Mòrag thought she would, Brighid’s hand twitches suddenly, and now there’s a fire crackling in front of her.

A fire made of blue flames.

A _campfire_ made of blue flames.

“A simple task,” Brighid says, more than satisfied with her work. Mòrag tentatively comes closer, staring at the flames with wonder in her eyes.

Even now, they’re still so beautiful. She can’t stop staring, can’t stop watching them and their exquisite color. It’s amazing, really.

“Mòrag?” The sound of her name makes her jolt, and she finds Brighid looking at her strangely. “Are you not hungry?”

“A-ah, yes, right.” Mòrag shakes her head, until she remembers who she’s with once more. “Oh, forgive me, my lady! I know you’re hungry, allow me to prepare the food.” She quickly goes to the eks, taking out her hunting knife.

Brighid frowns. “No, I’m not but—”

“I won’t dally any longer, allow me to cook you a meal—” and Mòrag pauses, a stray thought coming to her.

“Do… you… ah…” Curse her tongue, she can’t ask this so delicately. Awkward silence passes between them as Mòrag contemplates the finer details of a dragon’s diet.

Brighid, for all her perceptiveness, answers her unasked question. “Yes, cooked meat is fine.”

“… of course.”

Mòrag gets right to work, missing the way Brighid continues to frown at her.

* * *

It takes them several days to arrive at a town.

Mòrag’s never felt wearier in her entire life, and it certainly isn’t from traveling. Brighid, once with a detached curiosity, now acts… distant. Mòrag can tell there is an issue bothering her, but Brighid brushes off her concerns.

Perhaps it is how a manakete is. Perhaps it is Brighid still unused to her manakete form. Perhaps… Mòrag makes for a poor companion and Brighid is realizing that.

… perhaps rest in a proper bed might be good for the both of them.

Except, as Mòrag looks into the town as she stands at its edge, her apprehension rises. She rests a hand on a hilt of one of her swords, anxiously running her fingers over it. Sleep in a bed sounds appealing, even to her, but…

Brighid comes next to her. “Will we be going in?”

“I… hm, yes.”

“… but?”

“… nothing, my lady. Let us secure a room as soon as possible,” Mòrag only replies, steeling herself. If nothing else, the quicker they to get to the inn, the easier things will be.

Mòrag ignores the looks of the townspeople as she comes into town. She knows she’s dressed differently from the others, but even this outfit is better than her usual uniform back on Mor Ardain. It was said that the greatest practitioners of swordsmanship wore the very garb she did, but they’ve only become myths in this day and age. There’d been whispers of the name Orion, but finding out anything more was like trying to find a needle in the haystack.

And, Mòrag doesn’t think herself worthy to wear such a garment with a heavy meaning. A swordsman? _Her?_ How could she consider herself one, especially of wyvernian _Mor Ardain_? All she’d done was forever ground herself and forsook the shield of Iote, all to take up the legendary fangs of the Flamebringer instead.

Were it not for the covert nature of her mission, though, she would prefer being in her regular uniform. But Niall had said it looked nice on her… and who was she to object to the Emperor’s compliments?

Brighid, too, sticks out like a sore thumb. She’s wearing the plain black cloak Mòrag brought with her, with its hood up. Mòrag knows it draws more attention, but it still brings far less questions, and danger, than if people were to know Brighid were a manakete. There are still enemies lurking here, enemies she cannot see, and evil always lurks in the hearts of men.

They cannot be allowed to know of Brighid’s existence.

But to think that _she_ could invite such danger upon the revered Flamebringer…

 _For Mor Ardain,_ Mòrag remembers again. This is no time for regrets, what’s done is done.

The townspeople are whispering, but when Mòrag sweeps her gaze over to them, they immediately stop. Mòrag slows her pace, waiting for Brighid to catch up to her. “Please, stay by my side,” she whispers. Brighid steps closer, their arms brushing as they walk together. Mòrag ignores how improper it is, focusing instead of getting inside and _away_ from prying eyes.

Despite all the whispers and stares, the path to the inn is uneventful. The innkeeper, a grizzled Gormotti man with a face riddled with scars, looks up at them with a frown, his ears twitching.

Mòrag quickly places a bag of coins on the counter. “I require only a single room, please—”

“Ardainian?” the innkeeper suddenly interrupts, his eyes narrowing and scrutinizing Mòrag far closer than she likes. The suspicion is more than palpable in the air at this point. Mòrag resists the urge to rest a hand upon her sword. It would do no good to threaten him.

“Yes, I hail from Mor Ardain,” she answers smoothly. She understands his wariness, but it still makes her bristle. “I spent my childhood there but traveled once I was able. I’ve not returned since then.”

He doesn’t answer her, but the suspicious look stays in his eyes. The bag of coins sits on the counter between them like a divide. Mòrag’s hand is twitching to scoop it back up and camp outside instead. If she’ll be treated like a criminal here, she might as well—

A soft hum from behind nearly makes Mòrag startle. Then, she remembers she is no longer alone, and the real reason she sought to stay in the village was for Brighid.

“My companion has been traveling nonstop since yesterday. We’ll cause no trouble, we merely want a place to rest,” Brighid says lightly. Were the innkeeper close, Mòrag was sure she would have placed a gentle hand upon his arm to seal the deal. The thought nearly makes Mòrag curl her lips in distaste. The innkeeper flits his eyes toward Brighid, and Mòrag is only glad that he doesn’t leer at her.

The suspicion is still upon him, but Mòrag watches his eyes move down to her swords. Still watching them warily, the innkeeper grunts something like an affirmative and takes the bag of coins Mòrag sets down. He turns around to grab a set of keys and places it upon the counter, the keys clattering upon the wood.

“Last room down the hall, up the stairs,” he says before walking away.

Mòrag swipes the keys, trying her hardest not to scowl. It would do no good to lose her composure here, not when privacy is close. She can feel the eyes of the other patrons on the back of her head. But while she would rather not draw attention, she would rather they keep their eyes on her than on Brighid.

The room in the inn is small, much smaller than Mòrag is used to, but anything is a comfort compared to the days of sleeping on the outside grounds. The stars were a company of their own, but sleeping upon the rocks is an option that’s low on a list of Mòrag’s comforts.

There’s a chair next to the table, a small round one that’s unfurnished. Mòrag takes it, carefully hooking her swords and delicately placing them upon the table. She settles herself in, threads her fingers together, and thinks to herself.

The Flamebringer… even now, Mòrag can still hardly believe she’d managed to even find the dragon of legend. It’d been a gambit, and a foolhardy one, but given how dire things were… it was a risk Mòrag was willing to take. But, it’s paid off, and now, she’s here, in a small town in Gormott, with the Flamebringer.

What does she do now? Does she go back to Mor Ardain and await further orders? Or, does she remain on Gormott while conducting her own investigations? She cannot trust the Senate to act quickly. It had taken so much convincing to even send her, their own Special Inquisitor, out onto this mission that didn’t even guarantee success. The senators were fools, Mòrag had seethed to Niall later.

Uraya is not the _only_ threat to them right now.

And, with Mor Ardain’s titan nearing death… and Gormott’s fertile fields… there’s—

“Are you planning on staying inside here the whole time?”

Mòrag blinks rapidly, startled that her thoughts were interrupted. Oh, no, she forgot Brighid was here. She immediately sits upright, turning to see where Brighid is.

Brighid is sitting at the edge of one of the beds, having taken off the hood. She has her hands on her lap, clawed fingertips tapping against her leg. Mòrag’s eyes immediately catch on Brighid’s ears, long and pointed, decidedly not human. In the slight darkness of the room, Mòrag swears Brighid seems… faintly illuminated, but that must be impossible. Or… perhaps, it must be some sort of manakete trait.

“F-forgive me, my lady, I hadn’t meant to… lose myself like that,” Mòrag apologizes, if a little awkwardly. Brighid doesn’t say anything, but for some reason, Mòrag feels like her displeasure grows. It irritates Mòrag, as well, to know that there is _something_ bothering the dragon but she refuses to tell Mòrag. “But to answer your question… yes.”

“I saw a marketplace in this town as we walked to the inn,” Brighid says, gesturing with a slight jerk of her head. “Will you come with me to visit it?”

Mòrag stares at Brighid as if she’s grown a second head. Dragons… did not share the same customs of humans, at least not in any of the books Mòrag has read, but she _knows_ Brighid isn’t imperceptivie to notice their decidedly less than warm welcome into the town.

“You wish to… explore the town?” Mòrag asks carefully.

“Yes,” Brighid answers immediately. She turns her head toward Mòrag, a small gesture that makes Mòrag nearly freeze in place. Why does she feel so unsettled? What is it about Brighid that makes her anxious?

Because Brighid is a dragon, because Brighid is the revered Flamebringer of legend, because Brighid is…

Because Brighid _is_.

“Enemies are afoot, my lady,” Mòrag says, “I cannot take risks, and… I apologize, but that means you also cannot venture out as well.”

“… is that so?” Brighid turns away from her. Though Brighid’s expression continues to remain impassive as always, Mòrag cannot help but feel like she’s done something wrong once more. This is…

Mòrag looks down at her lap, pondering over everything that’s happened so far. Even Mòrag can sense… a restlessness to Brighid, a building… irritation, perhaps, would be the better phrase for it. Mòrag knows she’s a poor conversationalist, but she’s awakened Brighid for her power, the least she can do is offer the revered Flamebringer some sort of companionship.

At least, until they can get back to the capital, and Mòrag will be forced to attend to her duties, and Brighid can seek better companionship elsewhere.

“Mòrag, do you believe it is only hardships that can dictate the path of your life?”

The question comes so suddenly, and so unexpectedly that Mòrag’s thrown off guard, mouth agape as she looks at Brighid. “Hah?” comes out of her, unable to process a better response. Brighid furrows her brow, and repeats her question. “Do you believe enduring hardships is the only path your life can take?”

No immediate answer comes to Mòrag. Her mouth, already open, refuses to sound words. She closes her mouth then, working her jaw as she mulls over a reply. But how does she answer that? What does Brighid ask of her? Does she seek an honest answer? Or something that will satisfy her?

No… Brighid, even for all her centuries of sleep, is much keener than Mòrag gives her credit. Were Brighid anyone else, Mòrag would have tried to fib an answer, but this is _Brighid_. She’ll likely see through any lie Mòrag could try to give.

… it is strange that Mòrag could come to that conclusion after just several days of travel between them.

Instead, Mòrag stares at her. An unpleasant feeling is beginning to well inside of her, and she wants nothing more for this conversation to end. A dragon Brighid may be, Mòrag’s polite distance is quickly waning with each prod Brighid seems intent on making.

“I came here on a mission,” Mòrag says, slightly tenser than she’s wanted. Beyond the glass, she can see the townspeople, carrying on with their daily lives, as if the looming prospects of war didn’t threaten their very livelihood. If only… she could…

Mòrag takes a breath. “I live and breathe for my Empire. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Brighid doesn’t answer her, but Mòrag can hear the sheets rustling. The quiet thuds echoing in the room signal Brighid is coming toward her. Still, Mòrag keeps her gaze trained out toward the window, toward the townspeople. Right now, there are children running through the plaza square, their smiles free and faces unburdened. It makes even someone like Mòrag smile, watching them as they run and play.

How long will these days last?

How much longer can Mòrag pretend to ignore that war isn’t on the verge of breaking out?

When Mòrag comes to invade, will she cut down these same children?

A hand slides down her face, cupping her chin. Mòrag tears her gaze away from the window, but she doesn’t look up at Brighid.

“You are still so young, yet the duty upon you is a heavy burden,” Brighid says, her voice soft. “Humans always have such lofty goals, always reaching for the unattainable… are they your own goals, or…”

“It is my _duty_ ,” Mòrag interrupts, but her voice is weak.

To live and die for the Empire, this is the duty she’s been given since birth to fulfill.

… she has no reason to hesitate.

And, yet…

Mòrag stands, slowly meeting Brighid’s gaze.

“You wanted to go, did you not, Brighid?”

If Brighid is surprised, she does a good show of hiding it, save for the slight rise of her eyebrows that Mòrag catches, from how close they are next to each other. Brighid tilts her head as she answers, “If you have no desire of it, then it is fine.”

Mòrag resists the urge to draw a deep breath. Brighid… is a difficult being for Mòrag to deal with. The temptation to sit back down in the chair and brood—ruminate (Mòrag is _not_ a child sulking) is strong, but she forces the rest of her words out.

“I… will venture into the town. Perhaps there is… a new bag I can find for our travels. Mine has been getting rather worn,” Mòrag says, knowing full well Brighid can see through the excuse.

She is not acquiescing, but… merely making a compromise. That is all.

Brighid studies her once more before she steps backward, away from Mòrag, giving them both space. There is… Mòrag feels as if Brighid is waiting for something else, waiting for something… _more_. But Mòrag can draw no hints from her—

Ah.

Mòrag struggles to contain her tired sigh as she asks, “Would you like to accompany me, Brighid?”

The corners of Brighid’s lips twitch upward, a faint smile. She’s pleased, but for what? Mòrag doesn’t understand her at all. “It would be my pleasure,” she says, and for reasons indiscernible to her, Mòrag feels a flush creeping across her face at the words.

“V-very well, let us go,” Mòrag says, quickly rushing past Brighid to hide the embarrassed flush upon her face.

The town’s activity quiet once more when Mòrag and Brighid are outside. The townspeople stare at her. The children, they too, also stare at her, and Mòrag resists the urge to stare right back. But after some time passes, the children lose interest and return to playing. As if waiting for them, the townspeople finally look away from her, or at least, most of them do.

Mòrag pointedly ignores their stares, and looks over at Brighid instead. “My lady, where would you like to go?”

Brighid looks as if she wants to say something but thinks better of it. Instead, she looks around. “There are open stalls over there, would you like to see their wares?”

“If you’d like,” Mòrag answers. She begins to walk, Brighid already trailing behind her. “I still would not like to dally for too long out here. I do not speak lightly when I say there are… enemies I must be wary of.”

“Only just for a little bit,” Brighid says.

The people behind the stalls eye them warily but Mòrag is thankful to find none of them outright closing up shop. They’re hesitant to talk to her though, not that Mòrag blames them, but she would rather they remain courteous for Brighid. She nearly wants to growl at them to tell them to be polite, but it would do little to help her case.

None of them are selling bags, they find. Mòrag thought she should _at least_ buy something to keep her excuse up, but alas. Instead, they spend some time at a trinkets shop. The shopkeeper lights up as he sees them, no doubt wanting to make a sell even to suspicious strangers.

“Are you looking for anything in particular, my lady?” the shopkeeper asks. Brighid looks up from where she’d been eyeing glass figurines.

“Dragons,” she says. Mòrag nearly makes a strangled sound.

“Dragons?” The shopkeeper furrows his brow but quickly nods. “Ah, you’re just in time! A friend of mine gave me a wooden carving of a dragon the other day. Perhaps you might be interested in it?”

He turns around and fetches out a small wooden carving, holding it out for them. Brighid gingerly takes it from his hands, looking at it. “This is a carving of the Flamebringer himself!” the shopkeeper declares proudly.

Both Brighid and Mòrag almost snort at the same time. Mòrag manages to hide it by clearing her throat. She peers closer at the figure instead, curiosity piqued.

The dragon carving is… most decidedly not of Brighid’s draconian form, Mòrag knows. It is more… reptilian in nature, and had the shopkeeper not said it was a dragon, Mòrag would have said it looked like… a very large igna instead.

“This… this form is more alike an ice dragon, really,” Brighid murmurs, amused. Her hand traces the shape of its head, round and smooth. It doesn’t even look like Brighid at all, Mòrag thinks.

“An ice dragon?”

Brighid looks up at her, before shaking her head. “It is… hard to explain. Dragons from different tribes are very different from each other. Perhaps, we may see one sometime, but…” A wry smile graces her lips. “So they believe the Flamebringer to be… this. Is this what happens when I sleep for centuries?”

“We are on Gormott, the legends do not speak so highly of you here as they do on Mor Ardain.”

“Gor… mott?” Brighid’s brow furrows. “I do not recognize that name. Did I end up elsewhere while I slept?”

“Perhaps. The world has been torn asunder many times in the past millennia. It is only the Architect’s will itself that allowed us humans to survive each sundering.”

“Hm…” Brighid seems troubled with that information. Mòrag wants to ask, but they are soon interrupted.

Sudden screaming makes the both of them startle. Brighid hurriedly puts the idol back on the stand, catching the way the shopkeeper turns pale at the noise.

“That came from the plaza,” Mòrag says, a frown on her face as she looks over to the noise. Brighid places a hand on her arm.

“Did you not say we should keep a low profile?”

Mòrag pushes her lips together. “Yes… I did say that.”

Another scream rends the air.

Mòrag hesitates for only a second longer before dashing off. When she turns to look behind, she finds Brighid following behind as she’s always done. It brings a relief to her.

Mòrag arrives to the plaza just to see a body collapse to the ground, blood spilling out of the wound on their back. There are several other men in the plaza, all large and imposing with crudely made axes, laughing and jeering.

Mòrag has several choices here. She can leave them to their fate.

Or…

A sound reaches her ears. Mòrag looks off to the side. It’s a child crying, one of the bandits advancing on her with a wicked sneer on his face. Revulsion rises in Mòrag, and her motions are instinctual before her mind catches up.

In the blink of an eye, the bandit falls over on his back, unconscious from Mòrag’s blow. She kicks him away, scowling in disgust before turning to the child, softening her expression. The child is terrified, staring up at her with eyes wide with fear. Mòrag’s heart clenches.

One day, this child might look upon _her_ with the same expression.

“Hurry to safety, child,” Mòrag says, waiting for the child to nod and scramble away before turning around, to where the rest of the bandits are.

Her duty is for her people.

Her duty… is for…

Justice. That is all she wishes to see.

“Halt!”

The bandits stop in place, turning up to look at Mòrag with sneers. Mòrag keeps her face impressively blank but with hard eyes, staring at each of them. There are… more bandits than she anticipated, but no matter.

She can deal with them all.

“What’s this? _You_ think you can take _us_? All by yer little self? Looks like this boy’s got a death wish!” one of them says. The others laugh, snorting and hooting. Mòrag doesn’t know what they’ve found funny.

One of them gets impatient and rushes for her, his axe raised in the air. She easily sidesteps him and with a flick of her wrist, she draws her sword and cuts through him in a single motion. She kicks him away, and he falls to the ground, gasping as the blood pools underneath him. He isn’t dead, Mòrag made sure of that, but he’ll never be able to hold an axe properly now.

As fast as she’d drawn her sword, she quickly sheathes it. The quick motions flick the blood off her blade.

Her swords… are unique. Better to not let them get a glimpse of them if she can help it. The easiest solution would be to kill them, but…

Mòrag pushes down that line of thought. She doesn’t need this distraction here.

She looks up at the other bandits. They’re stunned, staring at her like she’s a completely different person. Now, they start circling around, spreading out their numbers. Brighid steps forward, but Mòrag blocks her with her hand.

“I can handle this, my lady. But, forgive me if it might get… dirty.”

“Mòrag, wait. There is… something I can sense,” Brighid whispers as she scans all around. Mòrag blinks at her before sharpening her senses.

Now that Brighid’s mentioned it, there… _is_ something peculiar about the bandits.

No, rather, there is something strange about…

Mòrag looks all around. There’s an unsettling feeling she cannot shake, like she is being watched but cannot confirm her suspicions. She’s learned to trust her intuition since traveling alone, and there _is_ … something ominous lurking around. But _what?_

The bandits shuffle closer. Mòrag cannot afford to pay attention to the lesser of the dangers, not with the way every hair on the back of her neck stands.

The bandits continue to sneer at her. Mòrag narrows her eyes at them. Distractions. That’s what they are. Nothing but distractions, and since they sought to raid the village, she might as well deal with them.

Mòrag steps forward, a hand on her hilt, her sword sliding—

Her foot catches.

Mòrag’s eyes widen, her eyes snapping down. Wrapped around her ankle is… Mòrag doesn’t know how to describe it, a… shadowy tendril?

Wait, no—this is!

 _Elder magic_ , Mòrag quickly realizes with a gasp. She’s trying to tug her leg free but the shadowy appendage refuses to budge even as she uses all of her might. Mòrag growls, drawing her sword—

The sheer _coldness_ is what hits her first, her whole body freezing in place. _Then,_ she sees the ice spreading across her vision.

Mòrag only has a second’s warning before a figure suddenly appears in front of her. A scar, shockingly white hair, and the gleam of a sword are all she can register in her mind before the sword comes down.

Pain erupts down her body.

Mòrag blinks, dazed, wondering when and how she even fell to the ground. Her face is wet—blood, she’s realizing.

 _Her_ blood.

Mòrag chokes, struggling to push herself up. She uses one hand to prop herself up, the other—

She can’t move it.

Mòrag looks down at herself, realizing with horror what must have happened when she sees her arm, and the giant gash there, a thread away from snapping off—

“Mòrag!” Brighid gathers her in her arms, pressing her hand against the wound. Mòrag hisses with pain. Everything hurts. Blood flows down and she doesn’t know from where. It hurts. Nothing in her body will obey her. Even her legs refuse to move. Her vision is darkening, calling for respite from the pain.

But she cannot.

Mòrag struggles to keep her eyes open. She can’t leave Brighid alone with these bandits, only the Architect would know what they’d do to her. Even as more blood spills out of her with every movement she makes, she struggles.

_I cannot, I cannot—  
_

_**I refuse to allow myself to** —_

A hot touch upon her head makes her stop immediately. Brighid is looming over her now, brushing back her hair, murmuring something Mòrag isn’t sure she even hears or understands, really. The touch is soothing, comforting, makes Mòrag want to close her eyes and let herself be lulled away by that warmth.

Brighid murmurs yet another word, but Mòrag still doesn’t understand. She wants to reach up, tell Brighid to leave her alone and get to safety, but Brighid moves away before she can. Mòrag’s hand falls down against her own blood, useless.

Mòrag can only watch as Brighid carefully lays her back down, reaches over, and takes her swords instead.

“B-Brighid?” Mòrag is now finding her voice, frantic as she calls out for her. With a spurt of strength, she manages to flip herself over. Pain explodes once more that she cries out, but she quickly pushes it out of the way, focusing on Brighid, reaching out for Brighid, calling out for Brighid. “Get… get away from here!”

But Brighid takes a step forward, far out of her grasp. Brighid doesn’t answer her, only turns to look over her shoulder. Mòrag’s breath catches as Brighid opens her eyes.

She doesn’t open them all the way, but it’s more than enough for Mòrag to see the fury inside of them.

“Hah! What’s this little miss think she’s gonna do?!” One of the bandits jeer at her, walking closer. “Ya think just because you pick up a sword or two, ya know how to use it?” He gestures obscenely with his hand. “Come over here, I’ll show ya a proper sword!”

Each disgusting word he spews ignites Mòrag’s fury even further. Were she not so wounded and weak, she would have made him regret his words, taken his head by now. How dare he treat a woman in such a way?

How dare he speak so foully to _Brighid?_

“Don’t…” Mòrag pushes herself off the ground, coughing. The bandit laughs at her, but she snaps her head up at him and meets his gaze with a fierce glare, furious as she bares her teeth at him. He freezes up, his laughter stopping. “Don’t speak to her like that, you—”

Her hand slips upon her blood on the ground. Mòrag crashes back to the ground with a painful thud that makes her cry out.

The bandits, once frozen, hoot with laughter once more.

“Look at that! You were completely scared of him, weren’t ya?!” One of them jabs at the bandit threatening Brighid. He sputters, snarling at them before turning back to them. Mòrag recognizes that wild look in his eyes. She needs to get up, needs to stop him, needs to—

Brighid steps in his way.

“A pretty woman like you can fetch a pretty price so I don’t want to kill you, but if you don’t step out of my way, then I’ll have no choice!” He grins at her, showing Brighid all the teeth missing from his mouth. Brighid makes a face but doesn’t move. When his attempt at intimidation fails, the bandit’s grin drops into an ugly sneer.

“ _Burn,_ ” Brighid only says before she opens her eyes.

The swords ignite with flame. Mòrag’s vision is darkening but she swears she sees the swords starting to… separate? Come apart? But they’re like long wires now, pooling down on the ground next to Brighid, who raises one of them. A cracking sound snaps through the air before screams take it place.

Mòrag falls to darkness.

* * *

When Mòrag wakes, it is to the crackling of a fire. She gets up—

She cannot move. Her body is sore, aching, refusing to obey her once more.

Or, rather, there is a hand resting upon her shoulder.

“You’re awake.”

Mòrag groans, trying to blink through the bleariness. There’s another murmur that she can’t make out, but the voice is unmistakably Brighid’s. They’re together. It must be safe, then.

But where are they?

Mòrag can barely see, and she realizes why when she gets a better sense of her surroundings. They’re… not in their room at the inn, or… well, anywhere that looks like… a room. They’re in some sort of… cave, no, that’s bark. They’re… within a tree?

Outside… of the town? But, why?

“The villagers were not fond of the trouble we caused,” Brighid begins to explain, clearly feeling Mòrag’s confusion. “I thought it better for us to leave but with you…” she trails off. Mòrag is ashamed of her weakness. She’d swore to guard Brighid with her life, but Brighid was the one to save them.

“A… hm, a healer, I suppose I can call her that, was kind enough to offer her aid. Her power was… strong. If she hadn’t…” Brighid gestures downward, and Mòrag follows with her eyes.

Her wrist is completely bandaged. Through the pain she already feels, she can feel her arm throbbing. Her eyes widen when she remembers exactly what had happened: her trying to draw her sword before she glimpsed another blade, almost as long as her own body, cutting right through her, nearly severing her arm off at the wrist.

The bile rises in Mòrag’s throat as she _remembers_.

But…

Mòrag tries to glance down but it is hard to see. The light of the fires do not reach her arm, and her eyes cannot properly focus. So she tries a different way instead.

Her arm twitches when she tries to move it. Experimentally, she flexes her fingers. They move perfectly, her digits curling into her palm despite the pain.

“My… my arm, is it…?”

“She healed _everything_ ,” Brighid says in a low tone. “Even I have never seen anything like it in my entire life. Her healing power was… amazing. It was almost as if…” Strangely, Brighid doesn’t finish her sentence. When Mòrag cranes her head to look up at her, a contemplative furrow has come to Brighid’s brow, as she stares outward.

Mòrag looks away again. She can feel the bandages on her arm. It’s tempting to reach out and pull them off, to see her skin underneath, to _see_ whether it is…

“Have no fear, your body is fully healed,” Brighid speaks suddenly. “You’ll still need to rest for your body to fully recover. Healing is very taxing upon the body, I’m sure you know, and to heal the severity of those wounds all at once in one go…” Brighid shakes her head. “Miraculous power, is all I can describe it. I don’t know the depths of her healing power, but you may have scars.”

Mòrag wrinkles her nose in distaste. Brighid notices it, smoothing back the lines.

“I… am not fond of them,” Mòrag confesses in a soft voice.

Brighid hums. “I find that surprising.”

“How so?”

“A soldier such as yourself… ah.” Brighid shakes her head. “No, never mind. For someone like _you_ … how fitting.” Her hand goes back down to stroke Mòrag’s face. Mòrag can feel the pointed fingertips of Brighid’s claws lightly scratching against her skin, but… it is a soothing motion, for Mòrag. She’ll need to find some gloves for Brighid, Mòrag thinks idly, to better hide them away.

Mòrag finds herself drifting off even with her wounds throbbing painfully. The healing might have been miraculous, but her body still needs rest to fully recover. A pity that the healer could not heal the stresses of both body and mind.

But a thought comes to the forefront of Mòrag’s mind, and she must know before she returns to slumber.

“Brighid,” Mòrag starts, pausing to clear her throat. It’s dry. Brighid is raising a canteen but seems to think better of it, carefully propping Mòrag up slightly before holding it out. Mòrag nods at her gratefully, and takes the canteen with her good hand. Water sloshes through her throat, soothing her. It feels wonderful.

Brighid takes the canteen away after Mòrag nourishes herself. “Brighid,” Mòrag starts again, “you… er, brought me here? By yourself?”

“Yes, of course. Who else is there?” Brighid answers. She’s amused now, Mòrag can tell.

“I-I meant, um, you… er, carried, me…” Mòrag’s sentence draws to a flustered silence. This is too embarrassing for her to ask. Her, the Special Inquisitor of Mor Ardain, being…

“Mòrag, though I may take this weakened form currently, I am still a dragon.” Brighid smiles. Mòrag doesn’t like the look of it. “I transformed.”

“You… you!” Mòrag closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“After I made sure I was away from the sight of humans, of course.”

… now it sounds better, but not really. There are still prying eyes everywhere. If there were to be a rumor of a dragon soaring through Gormott, much less the Flamebringer herself…

Everything is… a mess.

“I… should not have let myself become so grievously wounded like that. Forgive me, my lady.” Mòrag wants to bow her head in shame but she cannot. The way Brighid holds her in her lap, it is behavior that is… improper, between charge and ward. Mòrag has been set on maintaining civilities between them, and yet, Brighid wants to—or, nay, refuses to acknowledge this distance.

“Human lives are already so short, so fleeting… your life is but a drop in mine,” Brighid starts, speaking lowly. Mòrag would bow her head like a chided child but she cannot. This feels even more embarrassing, and shameful, instead. But Brighid, sensing her discomfort, only shifts so she looms over Mòrag, and opens her eyes.

Mòrag’s breath hitches.

“Though that may be… I would appreciate if you did not shorten it.” Brighid’s eyes close and she leans back against the wall of the cave once more. “As I have said in the beginning, we go together, Mòrag.”

Go… together.

Mòrag understands now, exactly what Brighid had meant. That is why Brighid has been difficult. How… foolish, of Mòrag, to be so blind to Brighid’s own feelings on the matter.

“… forgive me. I only meant to…”

“That is just the sort of person you are,” Brighid murmurs. “Your heart… is a noble and kind one. I can see now, your path will be wrought with hardships. I want to see where it will take you, and see where it will take me, too.”

“M-my lady—”

Mòrag cuts herself off when Brighid suddenly looks down at her sharply.

“That is only _one_ of the favors I ask of you,” she says.

“… only one?” Mòrag cranes her head to look up at Brighid. “Please, if you have any more wishes of me, let me hear them, and I will try my best to grant them.”

“Oh? You will listen to them?”

Mòrag feels as if she’s walking into… a trap—no, that’s too strong a word for that, but… walking into… something she might not like. Brighid’s smile is… off putting, so to say. But Mòrag cannot walk back her words, so she nods. “Yes, I give you my word.”

“Then, call for my name.”

“… pardon?”

“My name,” Brighid says. “I am… not a deity to be revered as the legends suggest. I am merely a dragon, one who slumbered away for centuries. It bothers me to see you refer to me as such.”

“B-but—” A finger on Mòrag’s lips silences her. Mòrag flushes deeply.

“You said you would give me your word, right?” Brighid’s smile doesn’t change, but Mòrag _knows_ she’s smug. She _did_ say that, but, but for something like… something _this_ , how…

“We go _together_ , Mòrag. You understand, yes?” Brighid says.

And, now, Mòrag understands once more, exactly what Brighid means.

But to… t-to treat the Flamebringer—nay, t-to treat _Brighid_ as…

Dragons, and humans…there is only one inevitable truth between them, that one day, whether on Mòrag’s own term or not, she will perish, and Brighid will continue to live, go on to live for far longer than Mòrag can even imagine.

Everything begins to fall into place.

“… I said I would listen to your wish. And, we… we go together… Brighid,” Mòrag adds, slowly, carefully, testing the name on her tongue. Brighid makes a sound, pleased.

“That’s much better,” Brighid says, laughing softly. Mòrag flushes, embarrassed. She’s lucky that the light in their cave is dim, though she’s sure Brighid can feel the warmth of her cheeks with her hand. A different thought takes her though, one last memory before she lost consciousness.

“My la—ah!” One of Brighid’s claw pokes her, not hard to break the skin, but firm to make Mòrag wince. “I mean, Brighid. I meant to ask, before I lost consciousness, you took the swords and made them—”

“Ah, that.” Brighid taps a finger against Mòrag’s cheek. “You still have not drawn out the full potential of my fangs. I will teach you…” She looks down at Morag, and even through the shadows of the flame flitting across her face, Mòrag can see her troubled expression. “I know you said you had enemies, but I did not realize you had an ice dragon after you.”

Morag widens her eyes. “That… the one who cut me down was an ice dragon?”

“Yes… but he threw away his dragonstone.” Brighid hums, and Mòrag cannot help but get the feeling she’s remembering something, remembering a faraway memory.

“You speak as if you know who he is,” Morag whispers.

“… perhaps,” she only says before sends a sharp look to Mòrag. “I will explain but first, though, you must _rest._ ”

“Wait! Please tell me—”

“ _Rest,_ ” Brighid repeats, and this time, Mòrag wisely chooses to listen.

They say little else after. Next to them, the fire crackles, and the insects outside sing their night song. As Brighid’s claw brushes against her face, Mòrag drifts off into darkness once more.


End file.
